Friday, January 28, 2011
Morbid Saint, hailing from Sheboygan, Wisconsin.
Morbid Saint's only album is an early example of the least-dated style of The Sacred Thrash, something called 'Death-tinged'. What this means is that the vocal attack sounds absolutely demonic, but not growled or monstrous. More like a crazy witch with throat polyps. This album has a raw, ruined quality of recording, which gives it a terrifying heaviness. It's as if the music is spiraling straight out of Hell like one of those vacuous superplanar clouds from the Poltergeist movies. There's just an endless barrage of wild shredding all over this piece, with solos and riffing of above-average consistency. This is a great album, nothing hokey about it, and extra brutal.
Artwork. That's a candid moment with the singer, from the classic moment where you get to try out funny wigs and costumes while you're waiting to be judged at the end of time. You have to be judged at the end of time a few days before each LP you release to be considered Thrash Metal, especially now with the internet.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Poltergeist, hailing from Augst, Switzerland.
These dudes threw their Thrash scepter into the giant pile of the turn-of-the-decade overload with crunchy precision and totally rad soloing. Their tone has hardly dated, which is always a solid feature, and the vocals do the job: they're not amazing, but they're at the right level and the use of overdubbing and group shouts is liberal. Riffwise, nothing spectacular, but nearly every track has great stretches of varying solos weedling out of their geetars.
Artwork. Well, that basically sums up depression. The little ghost kid (I'm guessing you don't have to pay the Ghostbusters royalties if you're from Switzerland) is so put out, you know? I mean, when he used to haunt that mechanic's garage, they did alright biz. Now it's just a bunch of broken windows and a hairy monster limb floating around getting in your way when you're looking around for a spanner or something. Ghost steals a nice old car, and it conks out on you after you score a haunting date with some ghost girl at the ghost mall. Might as well shoot yourself in the head, again. I've been there, man. We've all been there. Come on, though, Poltergeist, what kind of flung together logo is that? You get the "Parents-Most-Obviously-Didn't-Help" award on that homework.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Xentrix, hailing from Preston, Lancashire, England.
Xentrix are an OK example of The Sacred Thrash, nothing really too cool to report about them; technically proficient, adequate vocals, whatever. They shred a polished enough Testament style to fit in with any massive collection, but nothing that particularly stands out. If you released an album in the cacophony of 1990, it had better have been a real killer piece, right? You had to be above excellent in those days to survive, and that's putting it like ultra lightly. Anyway, I guess if you can successfully read Punisher comics to the thing, then you got your "No New Taxes" worth.
Artwork. So there's this professional guy, and he's not too cool. The haircut is barfworthy, his shades are mondo putrid, the suit he's got taped to his slimy torso is creepgasm, I mean the dude is just a slithering worm on your itching spinal chord. He's trying to sell you something, you know? Those hands are out, and the hands themselves, beckoning you with their sweet, simple unknowing, are the clue. Wake up man! That glass tower of nothingness is his castle, and he has ascended the nasty stairs of the Dark Land to overcome your humanity and buy your give-a-shit. Personally, I imagine several uberdudes existed at the time of this heaviness, and each of them were in league with nuclear death companies, i.e. C.H.U.D. factories, so I'm down.